


Learning how to love you

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Kitchen Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pegging, Separations, Sex Work, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: The first man she properly fell in love with, and taught how to love, was never hers to keep. This is the story of how they met, how they parted, and the enduring friendship formed along the way.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot, Jesus Christ/Mary Magdalene
Comments: 12
Kudos: 10





	1. orbit

**Author's Note:**

> (a wholesome, healthy relationship with absolutely no possessive behaviour or communication breakdowns? sounds fake but it's not)

Having to apologize for the strong smell of new paint was not, Mary reflected, the ideal way to initiate someone into the pleasures of sex. If she could have foreseen the future, she would have chosen another time to change the colour of her walls. “Perhaps we should have gone to your place,” she said, suddenly conscious of her mismatched furniture and the room she had failed to tidy, not having expected anyone. Least of all someone entrusting her to divest him of his virginity.

Her worries turned out to be needless; he barely noticed the surroundings. His eyes went from hers to the floor, back and forth, overcome by a sudden shyness.

She had half expected his front of decorum to dissolve the moment they were alone. To do what any other man would have done, needing only the barest hint of an invitation. Except it was not decorum that held him back. He fell still as she slid his shirt from his shoulders. “This is as far as I’ve ever gotten,” came the whisper, like a confession in the dark. Then a shy smile that broke the tension in the air. “Don’t judge me.”

She pulled him in until they were chest to chest and asked: “How far do you want to go?”

“As far as you can take me,” came the answer.

“Hmm. How do you feel about whips and candlewax?”

His eyes widened as she smiled, but her tone was serious. “You need to be careful,” she told him. “There are people you only learn to say no to after it’s too late.” Her words held the weight of experience, and of things she sought to protect him from.

He waited until she had shrugged off everything but her underthings before unbuttoning his pants. Except his fingers seemed to have forgotten how buttons worked. “Here. Let me.” She took her time removing his remaining clothes, slowly pushing him down onto the bed as she did so. He watched in wonder as her breasts came free. She wondered how far he had gone with a woman before. Or with anyone. She wondered if asking would make him self-conscious, and decided not to.

Instead she took his hand and guided it to the curve of her left breast, to where her heart was a restless drum. _It’s been waiting for you. See how it races at your touch._ His own breath quickened in the wake of its rhythm as his mouth finally curved in a half-smile. So soft, that mouth. She captured it with her own, stealing each sweet exhalation that poured forth.

“Tell me what you want.” She took his other hand, slowly pulling forth from him what she already knew was there. He looked up at her with those dark questing eyes full of need and hesitance, but also full of trust.

He needed to be touched; he had been afraid to reach for her, already knowing she was wise to his fumbling fingers and how his face warmed in her presence. And so she had reached for him first, reining in her impatience and making sure each gesture – a hand on his waist, on his neck – was reciprocated. Only when the flicker in his eyes turned into a steadily burning flame had she kissed him, chastely at first. At the end of their second date she teased and tasted the inside of his lips with her tongue. The sound it elicited was strange, melodic. His hands slid up her back and held her just a little tighter and said without words: _More, please._

He had been with others before; but never beyond that warm wet sliding of tongue against tongue, hands slithering beneath clothing that never came completely off. Some people desired sex every so often, and others did not. Some could go their whole lives without craving it. And he had not craved it before, until he did.

She finally pulled off her panties to reveal the curve of her sex already glistening with want. The sight seemed to render him speechless. “I assume you’ve seen one before,” she couldn’t help teasing. “Or at least seen pictures.”

He never did confirm or deny the fact. The eloquence that came naturally at other times fled once all barriers between them had disappeared. His giving, generous nature made him anxious to please her, and anxious because he did not know how.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, knowing he was about to. “It’s flattering, really. I’ve never been anyone’s first before. Not like this.” She laid a trail of kisses down his neck and collarbone, taking her time to find all the places he ached most to be touched, that thawed his inhibitions inch by inch until he was clinging to her and begging to be let in.

“Please” was all he could say. His hands were on her hips, trembling, almost reverent. His murmurs of need were like a prayer. And she answered it to the fullest of her abilities.

He gasped as she took him right to the hilt. Their sharp, shallow breaths overlapped and mingled and urged each other on. The urgency of the first few seconds slowed into a steadier rhythm when she held him down and locked their hips together, her thighs gripping his, undulating in a way that brought them both to dizzying heights of bliss. With each heave of his chest he glowed brighter in the lamplight and her love for him filled her to bursting. He shuddered each time she pulled back, delighting in the torment of being denied release until the last mounting rush towards the moment where they knew they could climb no higher and one climax followed another. And then they were melting and fusing into each other, limbs heavy with the sort of contentment that left them not just full but overflowing. A feeling they wished would last forever.

*

Neither could recall exactly how they started talking. It seemed as if they had always been in each other’s orbit until the stars had seen fit to close the distance between them.

The question of who had made the first move was also debatable. One arguing in her favour could say that she had first visited the café where he worked; one arguing against her could say that she had not gotten any further than that. She would drop by an hour before her shift began, shortly after his had ended. Had they lived at the edge of nineteenth-century Paris, the place would have functioned as a watering hole for artists and revolutionaries and ladies of easy virtue. As evening crept into night, bottles of beer and cheap bourbon and readily rolled joints emerged among the regular huddle inhabiting the back of the café where the voices grew louder as the lights grew dimmer. She would grab a coffee from the barista who took over his place behind the counter before settling into a table close enough to get a good view of him, but not at an angle that made her gaze intrusive.

Except he _had_ noticed her, after all. About a month after hovering within gazing distance of each other, he located through a friend of a friend the bar where she was kept busy mixing and pouring shots until two in the morning. She spotted him about half-past twelve tucked away in a corner, looking charmingly out of place among the horny bachelors and middle-aged married men who came to enjoy the entertainment of dancers who progressed through stages of undress as the night went on. His cursory glances at the bare-chested performers held nothing more than mild curiosity. Most of his attention, after all, was reserved for the fully clothed bartender. Their eyes met several times through the increasingly loud and lusty crowd, each exchanged smile deepening until she felt his presence settle like a deep warmth into her heart, into her belly. It coloured everything around her and turned the lamplit rain outside into gold.

It was nice to be in love. She had not been in love in a long, long time: a realisation that made her feel ancient. Except for when they touched, when his hand brushed her elbow as if asking for permission to pull her close. In those moments she was sixteen again and the world was unsullied and new and full of mystery.

“If you were hoping I’d be up there with my tits out, I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said as she dropped into the seat next to him when a lull in orders allowed her a break. The remaining patrons were the ones already working their way through a bottle of pricey single-malt or Grey Goose, long after the younger cocktail-swilling joes had maxed out their cards for the night.

“Here,” she said, pushing him a beer to replace the one he had barely downed a half of. “Don’t drink anymore of that cheap shit.”

“Thank you.” He accepted it gratefully. “Were you ever a dancer?”

“Yes, but not here. A brief stint at another joint three blocks down. The real money is in the private rooms at the back, of course.”

“You must have made a small fortune.”

She shook her head. “Didn’t like it much at all. You think they’d be more gentlemanly than the overgrown boys yelling at you from the bar, but…” She shuddered. “You see people’s true colours when they’re out of the public eye. And alone with someone whom they’ve paid for.”

The frown of outrage made its appearance. “They pay for your services, not – ”

“I know. They’re buying what I do; they’re not buying _me._ ” She shrugged. “That’s just how some people see the world. They think they own whatever they throw money at.” His expression suggested this was something of a revelation, and she was overwhelmed with tenderness as she kissed him, in love with his strange naivete. “I hope you never change,” she said wistfully.

“I’ll try not to.”

She shook her head. “Everything and everyone changes. It’s not always a bad thing.”

“It is when it’s unkind. Change, that is.” His hand slid over hers, their fingers interlocking. “You deserve so much more.” His voice was quiet, fierce, raging against the injustices of the world.

“There will always be unkind people. Terrible people.” She traced his knuckles with her thumb. He has nice hands, she thought. “But there will also be people like you. And that makes the world worth living in.”

Later, as they walked towards where her bike was parked, she was struck with an inexplicable melancholy. Something about the soft wind and neon-flecked windows and the passing of strangers in the night left her with a sense of impermanence even the warmth of his hand in hers could not shake. She slid her arm around his waist, needing the assurance of closeness. He was only too glad to provide it.

The sight of her Honda Rebel delighted him. It was a sturdy, practical machine that still had enough leather and chrome to make a statement. “I bought it after I quit the private lapdance circuit. To celebrate the end of rich shitbags treating me like a piece of meat,” she confessed.

“Good. I’m glad. I mean, not for what you had to go through, but…”

“So am I. It’s not quite as practical as my Toyota hatchback. But what can I say? It’s got style. And easy on maintenance and fuel, considering its horsepower.”

“I’ll trust you on that. I don’t know anything about bikes.”

“Didn’t take too long to pay it off, anyway. Going freelance was one of the best decisions I ever made.” She smiled. “One of my clients had a biker chick fantasy and asked repeatedly for the pleasure of fucking me on this thing. The day I finally gave in, she added a thousand on top of what she was already paying me.”

“I guess it wasn’t a bad investment,” he remarked.

“It was quite the balancing act. Good thing I have strong thighs.” She ran a hand along the leather seat. “You’re not thinking twice of hopping on? She wasn’t the only one who’s ridden it, you know.”

He shrugged and grinned. “I assume you wipe it down after.”

“Thoroughly. Like the professional I am.”

He mounted the bike without hesitation as she handed him the spare helmet. “You really are the most unusual man I’ve ever met.”

“That _is_ a compliment, right?”

“Wouldn’t be offering you a ride home if it wasn’t.”

“I really hope it’s not any trouble…”

“Shut up and hang on tight.” He did as he was told, gasping at the thrill of the first burst of speed, the engine thrumming pleasantly beneath them. The air was biting as she sped through the night, cherishing the wind against her knees and his body pressed against hers, his arms snug around her waist as the road stretched on into the dark. It was almost enough to make her believe they would stay that way forever.

*

He spoke as he sang, softly at first, ascending in volume and in passion as seconds and minutes passed, the spoken word missing only the strum of his guitar. She loved to watch him play almost as much as she loved to watch him bake. One could fall in love with the way he shaped and kneaded dough: that is to say, like any other person who knew their way around flour and yeast would. Except that somehow it was special. The look of concentration and quiet enjoyment suffusing his face until the solemn expression gave way to the smallest of smiles was enough to make anyone fall in love. If only they had the patience to watch, and wait. And for a on that lazy Saturday, her insides warmed with wine as well as the pleasure of his company, she felt as if time was theirs to own, theirs to shape and stretch as much as the dough beneath those skilled hands.

She could watch him all day while hovering at the edge of his circle of friends, never having expected to get as close as she did. He was perpetually surrounded by people, after all, including would-be lovers who were kept hopeful and waiting. The bolder among them had made their moves only to be gently rebuffed. He could have had any of them; of willing hearts and warm beds there were plenty. But the hearts went wanting and the beds went cold. And the intrigue around him only intensified.

“You’re good with your hands,” she had said to him one day. His eyes widened a little as if her statement was somehow startling. “Well, you are,” she added. “I’ve seen your wood carvings as well. Is there anything those fingers can’t do?”

It would have been an innocuous question but for the dip in her voice, the intent in her gaze. The dark eyes widened further. After that their every exchange took on a new weight, and every parting left her with a pleasant warmth nestling in the base of her chest.

After the sweetly thrilling ride through the early hours of the morning, every nerve in her body was singing for his presence; for their bodies to be intertwined, in companionship if not something more intimate. And yet she hesitated. She didn’t know how much would be too much, or if he was the type to withdraw if she moved too soon. His number stayed in her phone for a week more before their paths collided once more – quite by accident, as if fate had grown impatient with their inaction.

It was raining when they met; no, pouring, whole sheets of water breaking loose from the mottled sky. She had been grabbing some essentials from the small store that stayed open late for the benefit of those working past sunset all along the five blocks so they could pick up groceries before heading home. She would sometimes drop by before her bartending shift began; even on off days such as this, she patronised the place out of habit, and because it stocked the Sichuan peppers she had grown addicted to cooking with.

As she was wondering how on earth to make it to her car without drowning, Jesus stumbled through the door. He was soaked and shivering, his skin visible through the rather threadbare shirt he was wearing as he dug his phone out of his pocket. She waited until he had finished with what looked like an unsuccessful phone call before approaching. But she was interrupted by the store owner’s son – a stout beady-eyed bloke with an air of meanness, quite unlike his genial soft-spoken father. “Are you here to buy something or just drip all over the potatoes?” he asked loudly.

Startled, Jesus looked down where a growing puddle was forming on the terrazzo all around his boots. “I’m sorry – ” His apologetic smile would have charmed a kinder heart, but the man was not the owner of one. “I’m making a call. I’ll only be a while.”

“Does this look like a phone booth?” The man stared him down, not caring for the awkwardness of the situation, or that other customers were around. Jesus bit his lip, a flush creeping up his face. He was about to step back out when Mary stepped forward.

“Shame on you! Do you expect him to go out in _that_ weather?” She put aside her shopping and approached while digging through her bag for a towel, or a suitable substitute. Jesus broke into a grateful smile as his shivering intensified beneath the air-conditioning vent.

“Here – step away from that. It’s the coldest spot in the store.”

“I’ll just make more of a mess – ”

“So what? Is there no humanity in this place?” she countered, loud enough for the store owner’s son to hear. Cowed by her glare, he fell silent even as he stared sullenly. She guided Jesus out of his sight to a warmer spot and handed him the spare t-shirt she had forgotten was in her bag. He shook his head. “I can’t ruin your good shirt.”

“Then I’ll do it for you.” She started wiping him down until he accepted the garment, wringing out his hair and absorbing the wetness from his shirt as best he could. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said shyly.

“Oh, come now. Don’t act like we haven’t met before.”

“It’s not that…I…” It took a few seconds to give shape to his thoughts. “You’ve done more for me than I’ve started to repay.”

“What - buy you a beer and give you a ride? Life’s not about checks and balances, silly. Or are you more calculative than I took you for?” She helped him squeeze a last few drops from the edges of his shirt. “If I was in your place, would you stand by and let me go out into the cold?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Well, then.”

He looked beautiful even in his wet, bedraggled state. She wanted to tell him so. To ask him why he became diffident in her presence. Certainly it was not for lack of female company; the people who clustered around him included women of all stripes, including very attractive ones. He spent as much time talking to them as he did anyone else; sometimes longer, with those eager to retain his company.

Instead she settled on a more practical question. “Where are you parked?”

“I don’t have a car at the moment. I was calling to ask a friend if he could pick me up.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t…you’ve done enough.” He held up the dampened t-shirt. “I’ll wash and return it later. You work nearby, don’t you?”

“It’s fine. Really.”

When he stood rooted to the spot, as tongue-tied and uncertain as she’d never seen him, she decided to come clean. “Look, I’ve been…attracted to you for some time now. I know you get this a lot, and you don’t have to accept out of obligation or because you feel bad. But if you have no plans tonight, I don’t mind making this a date. If, you know, if you’ll have me.”

He blinked in the midst of fiddling nervously with his hair. “Are you…asking me out?”

A less experienced woman, or rather a woman who had not had her particular work experience, would have responded in a less forthright manner. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“I-I’d like that.” His eyes lit up. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Good.” She eyed the shelf to her left. “Do you prefer fried rice or risotto?”


	2. tinderbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lots of sex, and a bit of sads. Also a cameo from James and his magic bookstore that keeps popping up no matter what AU i'm writing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No matter what the end is,  
> My life began with you"

Only after many tender explorations did she discover that he found her captivating, and had for some time – in spite of, or possibly because of, the many things said about her in inventively worded insults and backhanded compliments.At least, that was what she suspected before realising none of it mattered either way. When she brought up those remarks on her colourful history with men (and more than a few women), it made his face burn, and this made her heart flutter.

“They can’t say those things about you.” His hand tightened on hers. She was reminded of a night in a strip bar, a hand sliding over her own in an admission of longing.

“But they can. And they have.” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed a small scar made by a chisel years ago. “I don’t give a shit. I know who my true friends are.”

He nodded, but a cloud had fallen over his face. She found her fingers brushing his forehead as if trying to smooth away his frown. “You need to let go of things you can’t help.” When he didn’t say anything in reply, she guessed he had fallen into the moody, thoughtful silence that could claim him for a stretch until some sufficiently urgent incident jolted him from it. She trailed her hands from his gracefully formed wrists and forearms to the curve of his shoulders, squeezing the tension from the muscles beneath until he was melting against her once more. And then his lips were parting, searching for hers.

She came to his place that night. When they were breaths apart and the warmth radiating from him indicated his readiness, she took his hand and slid it inside her panties, right into the warm wet cleft. He gasped and bit back a moan; they fell onto the sofa as she moved his hand in steady strokes, showing him how to push her to the edge of bliss with only his fingers. She mistook his downcast eyes and flushed cheeks for diffidence, perhaps even embarrassment, until his sharp urgent breathing indicated his mounting arousal along with her own. When they were both burning with need, she straddled his hips and pinned his wrists above his head before claiming his lips with a rough, almost bruising kiss. A small whimper escaped him, and she wondered if perhaps it was too soon for such forceful play. But he was panting, dizzy with arousal, his lashes fluttering as she felt him grow hard when she ground against him.

“Do you like this?” she whispered as she lowered herself onto that hard, eager sex. In response, he arched upward to meet her. She pushed him back down, tightening her grip on his wrists to still his brief struggle. “Behave,” she said with a smirk. He could barely form a reply – melting into mindlessness with a word, finding that submission suited him well. She locked her thighs around him and rode him until that sweetly throbbing ache was well sated and she felt him spill deep inside her with a long shuddering sigh. Then she collapsed against him, their foreheads touching, his breath soft and warm on her shoulder.

“Hot tonight, isn’t it?” she said after a stretch of exquisite, silent contentment. With some effort she pulled herself off him and stripped down unhurriedly until she was as bare as the day she was born. A passing wind cooled the sweat on her skin as she pushed her mass of hair aside. She knew he was watching; she loved the feel of his eyes on her. Standing naked at the tiny balcony of his apartment, she lit a cigarette and exhaled a trail of smoke into the sky, marvelling at how the moon was always brighter through a post-coital haze.

“You look like a painting,” Jesus said softly. “Like one of those odalisques, I think they’re called.”

“Hmm. A glorified harem slave?” She flicked a sprinkling of ash over the balcony, looking out at the city lights.

“No – not like that. I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you mean.” She smiled. “But I belong to no one. Not in that way.”

“You must get tired of people thinking you do.”

“There _are_ days when I think of quitting entirely.” Truth be told, she had not taken a job since their third time together, finding it hard to give her all the way she always did to her well-paying regulars. Prior to meeting him, she had scoffed at the idea that sex should be sacred and somehow exclusive. Or that sex with a particular someone could be so exceptional that everything paled in comparison.

“How did you get into it?”

She would have bristled at the words, save for their utter lack of weight. He might as well be asking someone how they got into interior design.

“Well. I found I was good at it. That I didn’t mind half as much as the people who judged me for it did.” She shrugged. “But mostly to pay off college debt. And buy a few nice things along the way.”

He merely nodded, as if that explained everything. It was a first for her: to not be met with a follow-up of kindly worded yet prying queries that were really just insinuations with question marks at the end. “You’re special, you know that,” she said.

“How so?”

She made an effort to give form to her thoughts. “You see people for who they are. Without all the baggage of…everything else in their lives. Maybe that’s why they’re drawn to you. Why people listen when you speak.”

He lapsed into silence for a while. “I don’t know if they do. I don’t know how much of a difference whatever I say makes. Or if it’s just…I don’t know. Snowflakes in an ocean.”

“Does it matter? If you change even one person, one life, you’ve done something many never will.” She pulled her shirt back on and slid onto the sofa, drawing him close till his head rested in her lap. “Stop carrying the weight of the world. You can’t save ‘em all.”

He sighed into her lap, reacting pleasurably to the movement of her fingers on the base of his neck, on his forehead. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep cradled in the safety of her embrace. She had not planned to stay, but she wouldn’t have left for the world. Not when this strange and wonderful man – the same who had turned so many away – had chosen her. Chosen to sleep so trustingly in her arms, his company and friendship and stubbornly idealistic ways and the peaceful weight of his body against hers an unexpected gift. In a life that seemed intent on wearing down the ideals she fought to hang on to, it was not a gift to be pushed away.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said, tracing his lips with her thumb. He murmured something in reply while sinking deeper into slumber. Perhaps he had caught fragments of her words; or perhaps they had been lost the moment they left her mouth. She supposed it did not matter.

She felt sleep stealing over her, allowing the peaceful night and the softness of his hair running through her fingers to lure her into the land of the dreaming. A land where the hard edges of her past and the unkindness of men were as snowflakes in an ocean: lasting mere seconds before they disappeared from existence, and from memory.

*

She was the first to take him. But not the first to lay claim to his heart. That honour belonged to the man he clashed and fought with incessantly, turning from each other before someone got burned.

They were as flint and steel, their heated words a tinderbox: unable to meet without striking at each other. And yet she saw the way one looked at the other once a back was turned. The intensity that would turn a spark into flame. The longing for pain because to love so strongly was to hurt.

There were times when their bickering would go no further than a back-and-forth exchange destined to end in the sort of stalemate that sputtered out harmlessly. But once in a while, more often than Jesus was willing to admit, it turned into something more. The first warning sign was a rise in volume. The next was a rise in vindictiveness. The sort caused by each attack growing more personal, meant to slice beneath the skin and leave a mark. Eventually, someone would intervene – sometimes having to physically pull them from each other. Twice Mary laid a hand on his shoulder, gripping firmly enough until he acknowledged it with his hand over hers. But even as she led him away, he kept looking back, some unseen force trying to pull him towards the very man who might destroy him.

The name kept forming unspoken on his lips. _Judas._ He stood rooted to the spot, chest heaving with hurt and with longing, whispering his name – “Judas, why – ” until Mary turned his thoughts with a soft kiss and a hand on the curve of his neck, a place he liked to be touched when he was in need of soothing.

He sighed as if a spell had been broken and allowed her to lead him away. But she knew (as well as he did) that this was only the beginning. There were days when buried desires bubbled to the surface and made itself known: in a distracted look in the midst of a conversation, or a wistful silence following an incidental mention of the man whose hold on his heart grew undeniably and inexorably stronger.

And Judas _was_ attractive, albeit in a way that warned off all but the hardened and well-worn. So it was a surprise that he couldn’t keep his eyes off this extraordinarily sensitive young man. If Jesus harboured wishful thoughts of being wrapped in those leanly muscled arms with ink crawling up to the shoulders, to have those piercing eyes fixed on him and him alone, in ardour instead of anger, Judas seemed intent on withholding that dream from him while simultaneously keeping him trapped within it. But the blame was not on one alone. The unspoken longing was a fire they kept feeding as if to stop would kill them both.

There were fires that died as words trailed off into a silent agreement to disagree, and fires that turned into a blaze in the absence of a cool head and a firm hand. The sort that left its mark even after what it razed had recovered. On the night that Mary now thought of as the beginning of an end, she was dropping by the café as was her custom before her night at the bar began. She knew even from afar that something had gone wrong. As soon as they were within touching distance, she saw his eyes were red and slightly swollen.

“Looks like it might rain tonight,” he said in greeting. A painfully obvious attempt to side-step what he couldn’t hide.

“Do you really want to be with someone who makes you cry?” she said very softly, as if speaking any louder might make him shatter.

He met her gaze for the briefest of seconds. “I don’t want to be with him.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded ardently. No doubt he believed himself at the time.

Without pursuing the matter further, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling a bittersweet rush at the way he sank so readily into her embrace. After a few seconds, he said: “I’m with _you._ I’m lucky to have you.”

She squeezed him tightly before they parted. “Damn right you are.”

“I never thanked you for ending those fights before…” His words faltered then, and she wondered where they would have led. Before he or Judas said something they truly regret? How much worse could it get than whatever had reduced him to tears? And did she – in her heart of hearts – hope that Judas would one day hurt him so badly that Jesus would turn from him forever, safely in her grasp thereafter?

“I’m attracted to people who need fixing,” she had confessed to a friend years ago while consciously trying to wean herself off such tendencies. It was unhealthy, after all, to throw all your energies into making someone whole while they took and took, and gave hardly anything in return.

Jesus, she told herself, was different. He was a giver; he longed to please and asked nothing in return except closeness and companionship. She was in love with the earnest way he listened when she talked. And the way he jumped to her defence the one time someone had challenged her opinion while heavily implying that the nature of her profession disqualified her from having one.

To her surprise, Judas had joined Jesus in his criticism, albeit in more colourful words. He didn’t return her smile of gratitude, though. The brief glance that met her eyes before flicking away was unreadable. It could have been a sign of acknowledgment – that Jesus was with her, not him; and he would not invade that territory while the two of them occupied it.

But perhaps Jesus was already slipping from her grasp regardless. There was only so much she could do for one who had already given himself away, whether or not he was aware of it.

She cherished the days where he belonged to her. The days where his face lit up like the sun with every jest or word of affection. This happened most often during their culinary dates, the default location for which was Jesus’ comprehensively equipped kitchen. It was the biggest space in his otherwise small narrow apartment. Their last date had been preceded by a brief argument over chicken pita wraps; Mary reasoned that it was both easier and cheaper to get store-bought pita and lightly toast them, while Jesus insisted on making it from scratch. She gave in without a fight only because she loved watching him bake.

“I’m getting rotisserie chicken and you can’t stop me,” she said with a grin. He looked mildly scandalised.

“You won’t get the right flavour profile.”

She rolled her eyes. “We can squeeze some lemon on that shit. Throw on some spices. You have like fifty varieties of dried herbs – ”

“It’s not the same! The herbs have to part of the marinade – ”

Mary cut him off with a kiss, hands sliding beneath his shirt, all over his back. When they finally parted, she said: “Listen, it’s store-bought pita wraps or pre-roasted chicken. Make your choice.”

“Fine. You win,” he said huffily before demanding another kiss.

Mary had never been the domestic type; she could cook an array of dishes well enough, usually things that could all be thrown into one vessel and involved minimal preparation (and washing up). But in Jesus’ presence, the mundane act of shredding a chicken into strips took on a vaguely magical quality. She enjoyed having her pick of the collection of spices and dried herbs he had surely spent too much on, massaging parsley flakes and paprika into the meat before adding a light squeeze of lime.

“Here; tell me if I’m doing it right.” She pushed two small pieces of shredded chicken into his mouth. “It’s not bad,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Shut up. It’s delicious.”

“I don’t know; I might need another taste.” She grinned and slid her fingers into his mouth. The delicious, frankly erotic sight and sensation of invading his mouth so triggered a rush of heat between her legs. Impulsively she grabbed him and replaced the fingers with her lips, her tongue, exploring the warmth of his mouth until he was making mindless sounds of pleasure. “I’m going to fuck you against the kitchen counter,” she said after pulling away.

“But…the bread…”

“The oven has a timer. Nothing is going to burn.” She cleared a space on the least used counter and shoved him onto it, simultaneously divesting him of his pants. His increasingly half-hearted protests only further turned her on as she shushed him firmly. “Use your fingers,” she told him. “Inside me. Now.”

Feeling how wet she was always reduced him to a wreck. And something in her exercise of authority – right in his own kitchen, no less – thrilled him deeply as he fell into obedient silence and went to work. His breath was already hitching as he did what she had taught him to: teasing the opening in steady circles before sliding in, deeper and deeper as she clung tightly to his shoulders and groaned her ardent approval while marking his neck with kisses. By the time his fingers withdrew, thoroughly slick with her arousal, he was begging for it. With the agility she had gained from years of defying gravity from a pole, she mounted the kitchen top so she could take him in fully.

“Mary,” was all he could say – in a small, ragged, needy voice – before lapsing into incoherent moans. She responded by gripping a handful of his hair and setting a relentless pace, only to pull back repeatedly until he implored her with increasing desperation for release. And release, when it came, was sweet. They were panting and laughing simultaneously as they sank boneless and thoroughly sated to the kitchen floor. “That might be the best orgasm I’ve had yet,” she said in disbelief after her heart ceased its pounding.

“Do you mean it?” He sounded doubtful, if intensely pleased. “Surely you’ve had better.”

A thoughtful look crept across her face. “It’s not about…being better, necessarily.” She laid a hand on his bare thigh, his head resting on her shoulder. “It’s something about you. Something I still don’t have words for.”

They sat there for a while in a blissful haze and let their thoughts drift until Mary said: “You haven’t told me how to improve the chicken.”

“I was kidding. It’s great.” He smiled. “I could do better, though.”

She smacked his thigh. “Shut up and make me some roast jalapenos.”

*

“I haven’t properly introduced you to my friends,” he said one day about five months into their relationship. That was how she found herself in the cramped, slightly dusty but very appealing bookshop adjoining the café. The guy behind the counter most days was one of his oldest friends. He had a friendly smile for everyone: the genuine kind that made his eyes crinkle even on the days where he looked like he could use a long nap. She doubted James was the kind of guy who had anything resembling a sleep schedule, or anything resembling any schedule outside of his work hours. She had liked him even before they exchanged a word.

But even such an uncomplicated meeting turned out to have a twist in its barbed tail. They entered the bookstore to see a familiar figure leaning over the counter in conversation with James. Jesus stopped dead in his tracks as his breath audibly hitched.

If fate had initially seemed set on pushing them together, thought Mary, now it seemed intent on setting the pieces in place to push them apart. Judas turned around, his relaxed stance replaced immediately by a tightly coiled energy, albeit not of an antagonistic kind. He looked like he had been waiting to say something. James gently nudged him in encouragement.

“Go on,” he said. “You were going to talk to him.”

Mary knew how to read a room, and knew when a situation would only be improved with her absence. “I’ll go have a look around,” she said to no one in particular, giving Jesus’ hand a squeeze before leaving his side. She looked briefly over her shoulder to see the two exchanging whispers that sounded both tender and urgent. A jealous monster that she had forgotten even existed reared its face and gnashed its teeth, making her clutch at her chest and struggle to keep a calm exterior. She looked at rows upon rows of books without the delight she would have felt at the sight (she had always loved books, and never had enough of them growing up). Her eyes scanned the titles on the spines without reading them, seeing instead the way they looked at each other, the way their foreheads were within touching distance. The naked longing in Jesus’ wide dark eyes. Had everything they shared meant so little? After all they had exchanged, would he so easily walk away from her?

She was so deep in a spiral of increasingly gloomy thoughts that she didn’t feel him sidling up beside her until he touched her arm. His face was thoughtful, apologetic. At least he wasn’t upset or crying.

“What was that about?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“He was apologizing for something stupid he said the other day.” A half-smiled tugged at his mouth. “He also said that…I should be with you.”

She felt her eyebrows shoot upwards incredulously. “Did he?”

It took a moment to realise that the statement was also an admission: of the attraction she would have thought he would try to hide, however clumsily, from her.

“What do you _really_ want?” Her hand slid into his. “And don’t lie to me.”

“Never.” His fingers tightened around hers. “What you’ve given me…everything we have. I don’t think I would have the same with him.” And yet, despite his sincerity, the edges of his words were shadowed with doubt. He shook his head. “That came out sounding selfish.”

“You’re not being selfish.” She cradled his face. “You give as much as you take, sometimes more.” She remembered fondly the first time they had made love; he had been so anxious to please, and she’d had to remind him that his own pleasure was just as important. The thought filled her with a rush of warmth as they kissed in the quiet corner like teenagers who could not wait to be alone, nestled by the pleasant smell of paper and wood.

They spent the afternoon delighting in each other’s love for the melancholy works of Poe and the philosophy of Coelho and Ursula LeGuin’s tales of Earthsea. Mary bought a small stack of books to add to her slowly but steadily growing collection. “I wish I had money for books this month,” he said. “James keeps pushing free stuff on me, as he would. But I can’t take advantage of a friend like that.”

“Come over to my place, and you can borrow what you want.”

His eyes lit up like they had on the stormy evening she had asked him out. “I’d love that.”

Impulsively, she pulled him close and kissed him again, this time sliding her tongue past his lips like an intimate invitation no one else could see. “Come over now. If you’ve nothing else planned.”

She stopped for takeaway on the journey home, telling him with a laugh that he’d turn up his nose at the leftovers of her fried vermicelli, which was all she had in the fridge. “It looks like it’s been through the wringer. Tastes only slightly better than it looks.”

“You’re forgetting I grew up poor. I don’t simply turn away free food.”

“And yet you can be such a snob about it.”

“Only when I’m involved in making it.”

As they were finishing the last of their pad thai, Mary asked, somewhat impulsively: “How do you feel about pegging?”

He licked a small streak of grease off his finger. “What?”

“Uhm. Pegging. You know…with a strap-on.”  
  
“A strap-on what?”

Charmed at his genuine lack of knowledge, she described it to him as clearly as possible while watching his eyes widen and a blush suffuse his cheeks.

“Have you done it before?” he asked after some consideration, toying with the ends of his hair as he did when both nervous and excited.

“Several times, with two of my clients. They enjoy it immensely. One of them had clearly already tried and liked it. The other was hesitant and took a while to warm up; but after his first time, he couldn’t get enough of it.”

“Oh.” He said nothing as he cleared the small table and helped her wash up. “I won’t ever force you into anything you don’t like. You know that, right?” She squeezed and kissed his shoulder.

“I know.” Unlike the first two times he had faced the anticipation of intimacy, he was not in the least tense, his brief nervousness gone. “I trust you.” And she knew from the calm warmth emanating from him that he did – implicitly, unconditionally.

His reaction to the strap-on was not unexpected, although he also expressed relief that it was not quite as big as he had thought. She laughed softly and kissed him, stroking and kneading in all the right places until he was pliant and sighing with love and want. “Touch it,” she told him, bringing his hand down to the phallic device curving outward from where it was fastened to her hips. “It won’t hurt, I promise. I’ll only go as far as you want me to. And you can tell me to stop anytime.” He nodded.

He did as he was instructed, lying facedown on the bed as she slid a couple of pillows beneath his hips to better ease the way for what she was about to do. It was also a very vulnerable position; but the trust they had established in their time together, his enjoyment of surrender to her authority, left little room for apprehension or doubt. He gasped when her generously slicked fingers began to breach him, from the newness of the sensation rather than discomfort. She went a little further, stretching him out gently. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

She knew she had hit the sweet spot when he began emitting mewls of arousal. Her own pulse pleasantly pounding, a rush of warmth pooling in her nether regions, she prodded at his opening with the tip of her phallus. “Ready for me?” she whispered. He nodded against the pillow. She slid in slowly, bit by bit, not burying it more than halfway. The sound he made – a mingling of shock and delight – indicated she should continue. The strap-on was fitted with a small protrusion that rubbed gently against her cleft to heighten her own pleasure even as she gave it. Already it was slick with the stimulation she received from her gentle thrusts that grew slowly steadier and firmer with the whimpers she took for encouragement, until she realised midway through that they had turned into sobs – and that he was gripping and scrabbling anxiously at the sheets.

“I told you to tell me if it hurts,” she said frantically as she unfastened the strap-on and pulled him into her arms, only for him to curl away from her. “Don’t,” came the whisper. He averted his eyes, letting his hair obscure his face.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me.” She tugged gently at him, but he had gone rigid, cold. “I’m sorry.” He pulled his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

His abortive attempts to give her an answer ended in wretched silence. After a minute or so, he finally said: “I should go.”

“Not until you tell me what I did wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Then what happened?” She rubbed circles into his back, wondering why he hid his face as if in shame. “Tell me what you were thinking. Please.”

“You’ll be upset with me,” he said. “And you’d be right to.”

“I promise not to be angry.” She took his hands and held them firmly. “Whatever it is, everything that you’ve given me has been wonderful. If you were to walk out now, I would still have that. But I don’t want you to walk out miserable and…full of whatever it is you’re holding back. That would make _me_ miserable.”

He nodded, but it took some time for him to speak. The words, when they finally came, weren’t all that surprising.

“I was thinking of him. I couldn’t stop.”

He tensed as if expecting her to retaliate. When she gave him space to continue, he added: “I imagined being…taken by him. And I enjoyed it. Until I realised it was wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. You didn’t choose to be in love with him – ”

“I _chose_ to be with you! And yet I still can’t give him up.” Despair filled his face as he tried again to turn it from her. “I’ve been selfish, and unfair.”

She wrapped her arms around him despite his protests. “Please – don’t. I don’t deserve you.” Yet he leaned into her embrace and let his head fall into her shoulder even as he sobbed with guilt. “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“Stop saying that.” She stroked his hair. “Stop thinking things like that. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But I…I love you. I _do._ And I betrayed you.” He finally met her eyes, as if imploring her to realise that she _should_ be angry, imploring her to throw him out of her bed even as he clung on to her. And for a moment, she did try. Except she couldn’t. “I love you too much to be mad,” she said, trailing kisses down his forehead, his mouth, his shoulders. She could feel him wanting to reciprocate the gestures and holding himself back. Feeling that to do so would be dishonest somehow.

“It hurts you not to be with him,” she whispered. “It’s hurting you more every day.” The fresh tears brimming in his eyes confirmed this to be true.

“Do you _want_ to go? Right now, I mean?” she asked after holding him until the last of the tears trickled dry.

He shifted in her arms. “I should. It’s the right thing to do.”

“If you feel that strongly about it, I can drive you home.”

“No. You’ve done enough – ”

“Stop it.” The sudden sharpness in her voice made him withdraw. “Can you not believe I do things for the simple reason that I love you? Do you think I keep a, a tally of things you owe me written down somewhere??”

He blinked. “You’re right. I’m being silly.” He stayed where he was until she pulled him back to her. Almost immediately he buried his face in her lap, as if he never wanted to leave. And yet she knew he would, in the end. He was not hers to keep. He never was.

He made no move to leave after that. They fell asleep with their bodies fitted perfectly together, his back against her chest, rising with the daylight but staying with each other till long past sunrise. In her kitchen they drank coffee and talked over slices of toast as if nothing had changed. Before they left her house, she pressed a handful of books on him, including the volume of works by Poe he had been eyeing. “Return them when you’re done,” she said with a smile. The implicit message was clear: _You’re always welcome here. Come what may._

They did not talk much for most of the journey, but it was a companionable silence, full of unspoken understanding. As the row of apartments where he lived came into view, the relative calm on his face was marred by an anxious frown. She guessed what was on his mind: the uncertain future he was heading toward; the one he had exchanged the safety of her embrace for. “Let me know how it goes,” she said softly.

“What if it doesn’t…go well?” His voice cracked slightly. “What if he won’t…”

She pulled up in front of his block. “I think – and I may be wrong – I think he’s been holding out for you as much as you have for him. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Then why did he tell me I should stay with you?” He looked at her the way a lost child looks at a parent, longing for answers. “Does that mean I’m doing the wrong thing? Even if it feels right?”

She snorted lightly. “What makes you think I have the answers? I can’t even recall the last time I was in love before I met you.” Mary smiled wistfully. “You know, I may have been the first to fuck you, but you were a first for me too.”

A glow filled his countenance at those words. “Thanks for everything,” he said softly.

“You’ll always be welcome.” Their fingers intertwined, and she leaned forward for one last kiss. And then she let him go.

He turned around once to wave, as she guessed he would. Mary returned the wave and then made herself leave before she went running after him. Through her rear view mirror, she watched the shrinking figure of the man she would always love. The sadness, she knew, would pass. What would remain was the knowledge that they would find their way to each other in times of need, no matter what.


End file.
